Tooth Fang and Claw
Maybe the sunlight slanting on the water played tricks on my eyes. Or my mind. Up ahead, past the stinking serrated carcass of the gator stood a man. Dressed in waders and a stained cotton shirt, he carried some sort of gun slung over his broad shoulder, and the bottoms of his legs vanished in murk at the knees.
“That critter done hung you up. Been floatin’ in and outta here for two days, smelling up the place.” He pulled the oaken butt of the weapon from his shoulder and studied the smoking barrel before dragging his black eyes back to me.
I swallowed. “Are you a killer? I mean, THE killer?” A swarm of gnats buzzed in a cloud next to my right ear.
His oblong face creased in a leathery smile, and he never took his eyes from me as he fiddled with a leather sack strung in a diagonal across his chest. “I’ve kilt. Yessir. Lotsa times. But that ole gator was done dead when I got here.” In a lazy motion, he swiped something from the bag and turned his attention to his unusual firearm.
“That’s a musket.” I knew the shape of the oblong blade on the end from my unassailable fascination with guns. Even owned a pearl handled pistol used in the Civil War. The stranger’s weapon was immaculate. Well-oiled. The blade straight and untarnished.
He tamped more shot into the barrel with a long rod. “Ain’t you a smart one?” Another indecipherable cutting of the eyes as I floated up beside him, his gun fire-ready and slung across his shoulder. “Maybe I oughtta keep you out here with me.”
Instinct is the first impulse of fear, one of those minute seconds of flinch that throws our whole hand on the table. He watched fear play across my face for a half-second, and in that time, he read my whole life. Pointing the sharp tip of the musket an inch from my nose, he smiled. “Why don’t you crawl on outta that fool-looking boat and stay a while?”
This week’s series of fiction is set in historic Black Mingo Swamp. To start the series at the beginning, click here. To read more about the history of Black Mingo, click here. Thank you for reading, for commenting and for sharing my blog.
Back in time she travels, stumbling upon a Revolutionary War Re-enactment scene. Unfortunately, she comes across one of the crazies who only joins in these skirmishes for the opportunity to hurt someone. Alone and hiding her fear, she steps gingerly from the cocoon of her small boat….
Are there people who only do reenactments to hurt someone? Thinking about it, I’m sure there are………..
Staying in my groove…
Top Of the Food Chain – Dirty Wormz
“I’m gonna make you mine, tearing you apart, makes me feel alive
I’m gonna use you.
I’m gonna take my line, I can break you down
Now I feel alive, we’re gonna use you.”
Good song selection for this one, Robert. Right about now, I wish I had an extensive soundtrack playing in my head.
Creepy in the extreme.
Will he be a creep? Or this man’s salvation? Time will tell.
Ooh, very interesting. I like the detail of the perfectly-maintained musket — that says all kinds of intriguing things about him.
He pretty much came out of nowhere, so we’ll see what he becomes…..
We really are into the realm of “paddle faster, I hear banjo music!” here, aren’t we.
“Squeal like a pig!”
Shudder
I cannot possibly best James Dickey, Carnell. What a writer.
I bet you could. Do not underestimate yourself. I will not let you!
All I know is that I’m vomiting words like I have a virus right now.
My thoughts immediately went where Carnell’s went . . . My hope is that this fella, in reality, is some sort of savior from something more terrifying (although I’m not sure what’s MORE terrifying than having a firearm pointed at your face). Hurry and get here tomorrow!
Who knows, Karen? I’m writing these by day. I haven’t done tomorrow’s yet, so I’m in the dark along with you.
The only thing missing is the gap in his teeth with which he spit chew into the already filthy water. Ha. This one is making me a tad bit nervous for our hero…if he is one. Love it. I kept waiting for him to wink…and say…”You sure have a pretty mouth.” Yikers!!!!
I don’t see this guy as a chewer, but he could be. I see him more as a smoker, but all I know for sure is that he’s a shooter.
I think this person is completely screwed. And we still don’t know what killed the gator. If he thought he was helping, he wouldn’t be pointing the gun, now would he?
It remains to be seen. Maybe he’s lonely and just wants a little company.
shudder
Oh – and the paragraph before read my whole life? Fucking brilliant. That was just incredible – it probed the depths of my own fear much in the way I imagine that musket probing the narrator’s gutted body.
It’s how I feel about fear, too. I never manage to mask it until it’s too late.
. . . and the tension builds.
But it doesn’t stink. Yet.
I can just see this old guy, Andra! I can see the glint in his eye, taunting the fear a bit. Great job of sucking me in!
And by the way, I do love the photos you’ve used for this series. They are really great. D
It’s hard to get good shots outside at midday with an iPhone. Some of them are from a visit several years ago, taken with a real camera.
Nice, now I must go back and catch up on the earlier posts.
I don’t know if ‘nice’ is a good descriptive, Mike.
But, I enjoy writing these whatever-they-are’s very much.
I truly am amazed by your ability to invent these stories. I SOOOOOO wish I could do this! Congrats, my friend.
Hugs,
Kathy
The characters do it, Kathy. I’m just along for the ride. Hope you are feeling much better.
Clicking on to the next one…. Ack!
Icky for me, too.